


Downtime

by Code16, JustifiedGlass (Code16)



Series: As Told [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Also surprisingly a little domestic, Altered Mental States, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Sex, Analingus, Ass to Mouth, Bathrooms, Breathplay, Canon-Typical Violence, Compulsions (Mind Control), Cutting, Dark, Electrocution, Fingering, Gang Rape?, Government Experimentation, Hurt No Comfort, Kind of mind control, Mentions of Death, Mind-altering drugs, Multi, Obedience, Objectification, Oral Sex, Other, Strap-Ons, Torture, enema mentioned, manual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 15:14:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6084504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/JustifiedGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s in a bed, which is also something, and when he opens his eyes he can see that he’s in ‘his’ room - walls without windows, door without a visible lock because the lock is outside, nightstand, table, chest of drawers, the door to the bathroom on the other side. Downtime today, then."</p><p>"(Sometimes, even out of mission state, the dose is still high enough that he doesn’t really mind. Whatever is asked of him, whatever he has to do.<br/>Today, he minds.<br/>It matters exactly as much as minding a bullet does, when it hits you.)</p><p>“What’s your pleasure?” he asks, finally"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Downtime

**Author's Note:**

> This story consists fairly significantly of rape, repeatedly of memories and/or considerations of torture, somewhat of weird lone domesticity, and basically entirely of rather horrible circumstances. Um - be warned.
> 
> See endnotes for a bit of tag elaboration.
> 
> Additional warning for brief references to suicidal ideation.

He’s on a lower dose, today. He can tell because it actually occurs to him to think about it for longer than a second, to run an inventory of his mind and come back with observations rather than the redirection of ‘it doesn’t seem important.’ He’s not feeling sick, not even the beginnings of it, so it really is a lower dose, and not withdrawal. That’s something

He’s in a bed, which is also something, and when he opens his eyes he can see that he’s in ‘his’ room - walls without windows, door without a visible lock because the lock is _out_ side, nightstand, table, chest of drawers, the door to the bathroom on the other side. Downtime today, then.

He’s feeling self-indulgent, stays in bed for a few minutes, takes in the feeling of the still-clean sheets, of being _alone_ (he’s not, really, of course - he knows there’s cameras here, as everywhere, and his monitor’s still on, sending off readings to wherever the other side is. But the room is empty, there’s no one’s voice in his ears. It’s still something to savor).

After, he gets up. Does a quick circle of the room, some morning exercises. The light’s glowing green on the box in the wall, and when he opens it there’s food behind it, ration bars and nutritional mixes. He sits at the table to eat it. Two missions ago, his team had to sit in a restaurant, had decided it would look suspicious if he wasn’t eating too. They’d ordered for him, but he’d never been particularly much of a picky eater. If he tries, he can pull up the sense-memory of it - the smells at the table, the texture, the taste of it in his mouth.

On this dosage, he’s learned the trick to calling forward just the memories he wants to revisit, letting the rest lie. It feels like ducking justice on some level. He’s killed before, of course, but he didn’t get to avoid it afterwards, tucked away behind chemical pleasantness that now wraps his mission memories, that he has to actively disturb, pull memories out of and watch them again, remake his feelings in the present if he decides he wants to have them. Mostly he decides he doesn’t, the scratch of the thread of guilt not quite enough to make it through that wall. He’ll be tortured, made to torture himself, soon enough. It’s maybe too easy to let himself decide ‘not now’. (And it’s not escape, not really. He’s not in withdrawal now but it’s never too long before they go for that, and there’s no walls then, or wrapped corners. Whatever he owes his ghosts, they’ll harrow him for it. At most, this is a reprieve. And almost invariably he can’t quite stop himself from using it. Can’t quite stop himself from not really wanting to do otherwise).

~~

He pours himself water from the tap to wash down breakfast, then heads for the shower. Scrubs efficiently under lukewarm water, washes his hair. Shaves at the sink with the razor they give him, no parts he can use no matter what he does with it. (He’d taken apart the first razor they gave him, anyway. It would have done him no good, he’s under standing orders not to attack his handlers, always. They could have just told him not to do it again. Instead, Hersch had come in, handed him a scalpel, told him to write ’proper discretion’ into his own skin. That was before they quite figured out the trick to facilitated extra-enhanced healing; he can still see the scars, faintly.)

Downtime means he’s down from two jobs to just the one. He gets what he needs to clean himself out, goes through it with accustomed efficiency. It hurts somewhat, in the additional way; his last team was rough with him (he can glance at his memories from a distance enough to ascertain, confirm it without really revisiting). But it’s not too bad. A few guests, and it shouldn’t make that much of a difference.

He does some bare-bones preparations, gets a small plug from the chest of drawers and pushes it into himself. That annoyed the first guests sometimes; they took it out on him without much exception, fucked him into whatever surface they had him over, sent him for the thickest toys he has. It’s still, on the net, the best option. Less and he’s risking damage that crosses the line; more and he’s risking actual punishment. And if the guests are set on particulars and important enough, he would have gotten orders.

He showers again, afterwards. (If the guests are set on particulars, he might have just gotten cut short by them arriving, which is why he saves this step for last, in this routine.) Instead, the first guest arrives just as he’s done drying himself off.

~~

He’s new, not a regular. John sees his eyes widening slightly as he looks him over, like he can’t quite believe it. Sighs somewhat, inwardly. He can’t argue it isn’t better than the sadists, but he thinks he can be forgiven for finding it somewhat trying, this type.

(Sometimes, even out of mission state, the dose is still high enough that he doesn’t really mind. Whatever is asked of him, whatever he has to do.

Today, he minds.

It matters exactly as much as minding a bullet does, when it hits you.)

“What’s your pleasure?” he asks, finally, when the guest doesn’t seem to be doing anything. The guy’s eyes are still going everywhere.

“What - what can I have?” John signs again, still inwardly. Keeps himself polite.

“Bed’s over there. Table’s over there. Anything else is in the drawers.” He can’t be older than early twenties. John might call him ‘kid’, really, if they weren’t, well, here. As it is, he doesn’t deceive himself. The ISA knows their job, more than the CIA ever did. However much it might feel like the guy needs a sex-ed lesson and maybe some friends much more than he needs a human sex toy (or not human, maybe. John doesn’t feel like thinking about that right now), ‘nice kids’ aren’t really the ISA’s forte. Not for sending here.

He doesn’t feel like elaborating, so he just goes to the drawers and opens them. The guy’s reaction still makes John wonder if he’s ever even been in an adult store (or a website at least, maybe) (he’d say something to that effect, but even if the guy doesn’t do anything about it, John’s pretty sure whoever’s listening today won’t show that restraint). But seeing John ‘at his pleasure’, so to speak, seems to be having it’s own effect, putting something extra behind his movement and his eyes, the beginnings of a smile. When he catches sight of the dental dams (John doesn’t know why the ISA even gives him those. No one ever wants to use them), the smile comes out in earnest. There’s not much nice in it. The guy slides the drawer shut again and starts undoing his pants.

“Get on your knees and kiss my ass.” John gets on his knees. Lets himself wonder if this is one of the ones that ends with him begging or one of the ones that ends with him cleaning the toilet with his tongue. Or both. “Now take me to the bed and eat me out.”

John’s gotten good at this. Obedience doesn’t help that much, unless his guests want to keep up detailed orders the entire time, which most of them don’t particularly. But practice, and incentives, had their effect. (The first time he’d gagged on a cock, he’d been put in a cell with a set of graduated insertables and told to hurry up and start getting used to it. The second time, the cell was too small to stand in, the order was not to stop until he deepthroated the maximum size, and he was told to hold still and beaten to the ground first, and then again after. He’d made sure to supplement the practice on his own time, after that).

At any rate, the guy is clearly having a good time, probably about half from the sensation and half from the idea of it. “Enough,” he says (gasps), finally. Gets up enough to look around the room. “What’s that door over there?”

John thinks he gets to count it as about half right, since in fact he ends up cleaning the bathroom floor with his tongue. (Not that it’s particularly dirty. He was army, after all, and as far as incentives go, guests like this are more motivation than he needs to make sure his room and everything in it stays as clean as he can keep them). Then ends up bending over the toilet so the guy can fuck him. He’s honestly terrible at it (John doesn’t give tips, because there’s considerably worse things he can be told to do with his mouth than housekeeping), but he doesn’t have anything to say about the preparation, so John thinks he should consider that a net positive.

“Kiss my shoes and tell me how fortunate you were to see me,” the guy says when he’s dressed again. John doesn’t get to see the news much outside of missions, but every now and then he still recognizes someone. It’s among the few mission memories that don’t stay locked away so well. He wonders if he’ll see this - kid - at some point. If he lives that long. He’s under standing orders to stay both across the room from it and still when the door opens. He does as he’s told, stays on his knees as he watches the guy walk out and the door close again. There’s a mental list in his head, like talleymarks. _That’s one._

He gets up off the floor. Washes his hands, changes the sheets, then goes back into the bathroom. Rinses his mouth, brushes his teeth, showers again. Hears the chime at the door and goes to do greetings again.

~~

After the first one, there’s three more in a row. Two regulars, one new. The new one likes sloppy seconds, apparently. _Don’t shower_ , the readout on the door says after the first regular. The first regular likes being anticipated. John gets to his knees while he’s still walking in, only waits long enough for the door to close before going for his belt. Gets his cock in his mouth, swirls his tongue around the tip then pulls back to lavish his balls with his tongue. Turns around still on his knees to present himself.

Doing it all without orders means the only thing pushing him is his own decision. He wonders sometimes if he should hate himself, for that. But anticipating, getting it right, also means the orders never _come_. That for as long as it lasts, his mind is, as much as it ever gets, his own. He’s not sure what exactly he wouldn’t do for that, but whatever it is, it’s certainly much worse than showing some volition in spreading his legs.

He’d tried anticipating the second regular, once. She’d had him half fill his bathtub and walked in with certain parts of the electric kit. He’d thought he might drown the first time, spasming muscles taking his head below the water. He wouldn’t have considered that the worst of outcomes. But she’d known what she was doing. (He remembered, without drugs walls, before drug walls, hours of something like this once. Remembered his captors’ frustration, anger, as nothing they did brought them anything. Through agony, remembered harsh satisfaction at it. Remembers, maybe too vaguely but any more and it would _hurt_ , having something to fight for. Something to win.) He’d waited for orders with her, after that.

At this level of dosage, he can follow orders, or he can make himself hesitate and then find himself following them anyway. Not like his body moving without him; it’s all of him that moves, integrated, distinguished from his own decision only by that barely there hesitation and his own awareness that it _wasn’t_.

(The new guest just wants to fuck him, on the bed and then over the table. “Lick it off my fingers,” he says after, reaching down to where the mingled come drips out down John’s thighs. John might have construed that, from the hand at his mouth. But that isn’t how this works.)

He doesn’t test the hesitation too much. He’s familiar with it, by this point, doesn’t need to keep trying it any more than he need to hit a wall to know that he can’t put his hand through it. And when they want experiments, they take him to the lab; they’re not generally happy when he goes off alone and takes it on himself.

(The second regular wants him on the floor again. She still knows what she’s doing; when she drives her foot into him it never breaks his ribs, never hits anything that might necessitate calling for medical. Then she lies down on the bed and has him get her off with his fingers. “Keep going; faster,” she tells him when his hand starts cramping. He’s been neglecting exercises. He notes to himself to keep better track as she clenches around his hand again.)

At this dosage, he can play letter-of-the-law if he puts enough effort into it. Kneel not where he fully realizes they want him, lie down in a position that’s not at all helpful… It’s arduous, holding off on obeying even instantly, trying to stop and hold the order in mind rather than a seamless move to action, making his mind consider the spaces not literally covered, shoving the new interpretation into the gap before it closes.

Arduous and exhausting and he doesn’t think he’s in the mood, not today. Nor for the retaliation, which is too easy, against him. Even without just sending in someone to do a more thorough job of it. Telling him to hold still under blows, or hurt himself, or just take a position and hold _that_ , isn’t particularly taxing, for anyone who comes to see him. (He’s knelt for more than hours and held his arms away from his body for almost as long and stood (and done pushups and run and held himself on his arms…) until he literally collapsed. Has, will again, almost certainly. He thinks he gets to decide ‘not today’ sometimes, if he can.)

~~

After the second regular, he gets an actual break. The readout on the door informs him, so he knows not to change the sheets (clean sheets are for guests, not for him), knows not to expect anyone for a little. He showers again anyway, does what care he can for his hand and the new bruises. He’s not particularly eager to sit in the chair, which leaves the bed. The sheets are barely wet this time anyway, at least. He reaches into the nightstand for his tablet, shifts his pillow over a little.

There’s very little good he might have to say, for Psych Division. Tests, experiments. Collaboration on the drug work. These breaks, and the tablet, are most of the exceptions. ISA could keep the guests coming intermittently and without notice, if they wanted. Could tell him to stay still in between and not make trouble. But Psych had said something like ’hyperarousal’ and something like ‘mental inactivity’ (he’d never gotten to read the reports, of course. They weren’t for him either). So the time off is made explicit and there’s a virtual bookshelf for him to look through.

He doesn’t get to pick any of the books. That’s fine; he’s not exactly up to date on publishing news, and anything that might have moved him in the past he doesn’t really want to read now. As far as he can tell, he’s either getting copies off some multiple amount of people, or some assorted list of freebies, because the selection seems basically random. Airport action thrillers, Victorian literature, urban fantasy mystery, a cookbook, _Stress Fractures in Titanium_. And so on, and so forth.

The tablet itself has no network connection he can access in any way, no applications except the reader, some kind of externally applied controls, and a monitoring system. His orders about it are extensive, the kind of detail that means they think he might try to get around whatever they said. He got a session with Hersch, hours, when he first got it, though he’d not misused it, shown no indication that he was planning to. (“Try anything and you’ll wish for this,” Hersh had told him, after. John nods from where he’s trying to stay conscious, because his handlers like acknowledgement, when it’s important, but he’s not sure he can form words just then.) It’s worth it. It’s more than worth it.

He finds one of his bookmarks and jumps to it, scans over the page to find his place in memory. It’s another trick he’s learned, this. Reading is a float state of sorts, can be. His drug, in some sense, targets that in him. Together, if he gets it right, he can - stay, somewhat. On his own terms, or as close to them as he gets. Without being prodded by memory, without thinking about what just happened, what would happen the next time the door readout sounds and changes. Words, and the bed, and the room, and time. Enfolded, or unfolded, or an island.

He gets through a chapter and a half before the door readout makes it’s change, before he has to get up, and change the sheets again, and be ready. (They used to give him orders about it all - the sheets, the showering, greetings… Whole sets, renewed when they ran out. They mostly don’t bother to, anymore. The camera’s on him; he knows what he’s supposed to do. If they doubt his diligence, they can order him to tell the truth and ask him. If he neglects his diligence, they can spend some time making him regret it, and then issue the order after all. Playing defiance with people you’ll obey beyond choice is a worse than useless exercise; they mostly seem fairly confident he’s figured that out, by now).

~~

The next two guests are both women, both new. The first has straight red hair and is probably office - pencil skirt, stiletto heels. She unzips her skirt and tells him to lie down on the bed, climbs up and smothers him between her legs. The readout tells him not to change the sheets. The second is blonde and in fatigues. She takes none of her clothes off, barely shifts them to finger herself. Picks a harness and strapon from the drawer, one of his larger ones. Fucks him with it, holds and grinds into it. Presses on his bruises with her free hand. Has him lick it clean, after, then chokes him with it a few times.

(A few times, experimenters have ordered him to hold his breath until he passed out. He’s been through worse, but he’s not sure he’s been through something quite that kind of terrifying; a room full of air, everyone else breathing around him, and his lungs just refusing to work, to move. Even knowing that he wouldn’t mind so much, just not waking up again, somehow never helped. After, he’d spent minutes, hours, whatever time he could get, just breathing and listening to it. Feeling it. Reminding himself, in his body, that he _could_. It depends on the day, whether the experience makes any new instance of being denied air harder or easier.)

He scrubs the strapon in the sink, showers. Keeping the sex toys clean is part of the job, almost always.

~~

After, the light on the box in the wall is green again. He fetches lunch, more water for himself. Eats standing up, leaning against a wall. Breathes.

The door readout tells him it’s a break again. He puts his cup away, gets his tablet.

Yesterday he was outside Milan. Took out three people with a sniper rifle. Even without looking at the memories, he knows that much. Remembers their faces, even without resonances. Their bodies. Tomorrow’s probably medical, or testing, or experiments. He’s under standing orders not to kill himself. Has been, for years. Mostly doesn’t even bother thinking about it, anymore, looking for cracks in a command that didn’t have any. He’s arranged the sheets as best he can to avoid fluids, found a position that doesn’t hurt too much.

The tablet gives him a new book alert. New release, the notice says, the date on it confirms. It’s weird to think, somehow, that there are people out there, writing books. He wonders if any of the bodies he’s left behind have been authors. Probably. (If he had some way to do it, he could look up how many people tended to be authors. On this level of dosage, he’s not sure he can locate the particulars of the other number.)

He’s not really sure where in the building his room is. Or what building, for that matter. Aside from the meals, he has no way of measuring time. For all he knows they’re screwing with him and it’s evening, or midnight. He might ask the next guest for the time, but he can’t know they’d tell him, or tell the truth. And he’s been educated by now that whoever’s watching either doesn’t want him bothering the guests or doesn’t believe in harmless questions. He doesn’t really want to know, not that much.

The room is quiet, for now. He’s closed all the drawers, wiped down the table. Outside, it’s maybe actually noon and maybe not. Above him somewhere there’s probably meetings. Orders their recipients sometimes won’t obey. Beyond the unmarked hallways and the elevator he’s not allowed to open his eyes in, some division or other is probably waiting for him. In this building or out of it, across the world for all he knows, some computer got told to send him a book. He wonders how Kara’s doing, sometimes. Who her new partner might be. If Snow’s still the one sending her around the world. If she’s still doing that; if she’s alive. Wonders what Hersch does, when it’s not torturing the resident receptacle. What his regulars do when they’re not here. Where the new people come from and where they go after.

He folds his arm under the pillow, finds his bookmark in the tablet again. Scrolls through pages and lets himself stay.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm told that the correct term for multiple rapists who show up sequentially rather than all being there at once is 'train' rather than gang-rape, but I couldn't find the tag for that.
> 
> Some of the specific kinks appear fairly briefly.
> 
> The altered mind things are threads throughout; the mind control elements are mostly the compelled obedience.
> 
> This is addressed in one of the earlier stories, but to be clear, John's obedience thing is due to the Mysterious Event that happened to him. The drug affects various details, but if he was completely off it, he'd still do anything he was told and be unable to do otherwise.
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.


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